


Wings of Destiny

by gongjins



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everybody Lives, Fluffy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gongjins/pseuds/gongjins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris gets hired to kill a dragon. What he finds is decidedly not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe this idea came to me in a dream? Because it did. It was a confusing dream so hopefully this makes a lot more sense. 
> 
> Also, Malcolm Hawke dies a lot earlier in this to make sense of the story.

  
  


Once upon a time there was a young lady who ran away with a renegade mage. 

 

They had three children and a dog, and while life wasn’t exactly peaceful with a household made up of three mages and a surly boy named Carver, things weren’t terrible either. They were a family, and having family was never to be overrated. Free of the responsibility of being a noble, Leandra had never been happier with her new family. Of course she missed her mother and father and especially Gamlen, her confidant and brother, but she hadn’t exactly asked to be disowned, nor had she asked to fall in love. It just happened, and if she was anything, she was someone who followed her heart. It was true that it had taken her some time to get used to Ferelden and all the dogs, but in the end she proved herself worthy of the good hearts, plain foods, and tempers of the Ferelden people. 

 

Malcolm Hawke liked to tell the story of how they met over breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The circle mage of careful unimportance crafting little butterflies to flit around and land on her nose always prompted adorable reactions from Bethany, scoffs from Carver, and a “Why not a dragon?” from Garrett. 

 

After moving around from city to city for a while, eventually they settled in a little town called Lothering. A place where very little ever happened, and so very little trouble could be caused by any. It was the perfect place to raise two mage children and an upstart young warrior. And aside from truly awful attempts at flirtation from Garrett to the pretty redheaded Sister (mm, redheads), very little trouble of any kind was ever caused. 

 

But if there was one thing that was true of all Hawkes, it was that trouble always came. And trouble this time came by way of a dragon. And this particular dragon killed their father, so there was truly just one thing to do. When Garrett Hawke became old enough, he went on a quest (as one does) to vanquish the dragon in the name of vengeance. When he was never heard from again, well. One doesn’t honestly expect someone to come back from that.

 

He was only nineteen at the time.

 

\--

 

The dwarf’s suite of rooms at the Hanged Man was rather impressive. It had the lived in, cozy atmosphere of home. The terrible smell of the tavern still oozed up from under the floorboards and through the open door, but it wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it was in the taproom. Fenris twitched his clawed fingers against the wood of one tankard once before glaring at the three expectant faces across from him. 

 

“So you want me to go kill a dragon.” He stated, draining the terrible ale. 

 

The mage -- Bethany Hawke -- smiled encouragingly. “That’s right,” she said. “We’ll go with you.” 

 

He tensed. The warrior -- Carver Hawke -- nudged his sister, who sighed heavily. 

 

“Fine, we’ll send others with you. We’d like to go,” she glared at her brother. “But mother would be devastated.” 

 

Carver Hawke inclined his head. “You owe us. We’ll pay you for this, but you still owe us.” 

 

Fenris’s brow furrowed, and he looked at his empty mug. He did indeed have a debt to the Hawke twins for helping him kill slavers and go after Danarius. And although the magister hadn’t been at the mansion, he had offered his services, should they require. And he did not enjoy having a debt to anyone, let alone a mage and her brother. As pleasant as they tended to be. 

 

“Now we know you have business in Kirkwall, Broody.” Varric spoke up from the head of the table. He waved a beefy hand and Fenris’s mug was refilled before anybody blinked. “But I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. This will get you out of Kirkwall, where every slaver and their mothers are looking for you. And you get to kill a dragon. Who doesn’t like to kill dragons?” 

 

Fenris rather thought he would rather kill slavers than dragons, and said as such. 

 

“A wise man,” Varric said, switching tactics without breaking stride or eye contact. “But look. You’re going to need money, right? A place to stay? People. You’re going to need people. We can be your people.” He gestured to the Hawke twins, who were looking at him anxiously. Fenris looked back at them, and felt his resolve crumbling. 

 

“You say your brother was killed by this dragon?” 

 

“And our father,” Bethany added. “Garrett said he saw him die and went tearing into the wilds. It was horrible.” 

 

“Why didn’t you go with him?” 

 

“We were only fourteen,” she sighed. “It’s not that we didn’t want to!” 

 

“And why now?” Fenris asked, wrapping his hands around the mug of ale. “Why wait?” 

 

“We didn’t have the money until now. We only just got our family estate back.” 

 

Carver scowled, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t think he’s going to help us.” He made to stand. “I told you this wasn’t going to work. We should just get Aveline to do it. She’d be able to face down a dragon, maybe even make it crap itself.” 

 

“Wait,” Fenris held up a hand. His stomach clenched, throat tight. 

 

Carver sat back with an eyebrow raised. Fenris bowed his head, considering. The Hawke twins were somewhat infamous after arriving in Kirkwall. They’d been in servitude for a good year upon arriving, but had apparently made a name for themselves quickly. They were skilled enough for Anso to ask Athenril to contact them for him, and then they’d assisted him. And while he’d offered his services to pay them back, it was a debt they hadn’t seemed interested in collecting. Until now, and with good cause. It wasn’t too long ago either that they’d gone into the Deep Roads to make a name for themselves and come back to enjoy the fame and glory money could buy them. 

 

And, well. Fenris didn’t want to leave Kirkwall in case Danarius returned, but what good was he doing in the mansion? Truth be told, he was lonely. He hid away and bothered no one, and if fighting a dragon was what he needed to do to drop a debt he had hanging over his head it was the least he could do. 

 

“Where would I find this dragon?” 

 

\--

 

The DeLauncet’s had a villa in the Orlesian countryside which they left for every summer when Kirkwall got too insufferably hot, as it was wont to do. It was Dulci DeLauncet, attending a  _ salon _ in Val Royeaux, who heard talk of a high dragon of grey and red who had been spotted deep in the Dales. Soldiers had traced it to a lake surrounded by high cliffs. There was a tower, and there sources had seen the dragon sleeping, curled around it. 

 

It had taken over two weeks to travel to the place marked on Varric’s terribly drawn up map, and that was with the aid of a boat and caravans. The twins and Varric had rounded up their friends Merrill and Isabela to assist. They’d attempted to get Anders to go, but Anders was needed too badly at the clinic, and they were (rightfully) afraid that Fenris would tear Anders heart from his lungs at the first opportunity. 

 

Because the twins couldn’t go, Varric went along, quoting that it was either the story of a lifetime or going to kill him dead. The dwarf was surprisingly pleasant company, keeping the peace between Fenris and Merrill and keeping Isabela occupied with witty retorts. His voice was constant company for all of them, and the stories he told on the long road were a welcome distraction. Fenris even found himself relaxing around Merrill, though he watched her carefully, just waiting for her to succumb to her blood magic. The moment she tried to sacrifice someone, he’d be ready. 

 

They stopped in the Emerald Graves at Merrill’s assistance, to visit an ancient ruin and place tokens of memory on the graves of the Emerald Knights. They avoided the Dalish, though Merrill watched them from afar with sad eyes, she made no moves to approach. 

 

“It’s a shame we don’t have more time,” Merrill sighed. “I’ve never been to the Dales before.” 

 

They were camped under a statue of Fen’Harel, and Fenris sat on the back of it, keeping watch. Owls screeched in the night and he listened to the sounds of the forest, waiting for something to spring on them. His long legs straddling the wolf’s back, he sharpened his long sword with smooth strokes. 

 

“It’s okay Kitten, they’ll still be there after we’ve killed the dragon.” Isabela said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing, like she wasn’t afraid of what she could do. Like she trusted her not to sacrifice her at a moment’s notice. Fenris was high up, so no one could see him if he flinched. Everyone trusted Merrill, fooled by her wide eyes and kind face. 

 

“But what if we don’t -- I’ve never killed a dragon before. Well there was that one time with the twins in the deep roads but that wasn’t a real dragon, was it?” Merrill bubbled doubtfully. “It was just a little thing.” 

 

“Little, she says.” Varric muttered, wrapping up the papers he’d dragged out and had been pouring over. He took off his spectacles and grinned at her. “It’ll be fine, we’ve got Fenris here.” 

 

Fenris swallowed his nerves, looking away from the warmth of the camp and out into the darkness. The three were friends. Good friends, and as nice as Varric’s stories were or as fun as flirting with Isabela was, he was here to complete a debt, not make friends. If they survived this, that would be the end. He wouldn’t owe them anything. 

 

“I wish they could be here, you know.” Merrill sighed. “I miss the twins.” 

 

Isabela laughed. “You mean you miss Carver, mm?” 

 

“Carver?” Merrill chirped. “Why would I miss Carver more than Bethany?” 

 

Isabela groaned. 

 

“I missed something, didn’t I?” 

 

“Daisy, you’ve missed something with him since day one.” Varric chuckled. “But it’s alright. We should get some sleep before it’s next watch. Imminent doom tomorrow and all that.” 

 

\--

 

The dragon, once they crested the rise in the predawn light, was magnificent. The grey and red scales glistened from morning dew. It was curled in a ball. Its claws were larger than Fenris, it’s tail ended in a deadly point. It was darker in coloring, although they’d known that from the reports. It was impressive, young, and terrifying even when it was slumbering peacefully. Behind Fenris Isabela and Varric were placing bets on whether they’d be able to kill it or get eaten, and Merrill was standing beside Fenris and, after one squeak of surprise, had clasped her hands over her mouth and was staring with wide eyes. They made a quick battle plan, with Merrill and Varric shooting from afar and Isabela and Fenris fighting in close. As far as battle plans went, it wasn’t much. But battle plans had the tendency to go awry anyway. 

 

The battle began when Fenris phased up to it and stuck his sword deep into it’s thigh, and then from there everything was trying not to get snapped in two by its deadly jaws and trying to simultaneously keep it away from the weaker fighters while also trying to keep between its front and back legs without being roasted.

 

Then the dragon got Fenris with its claws. Pain flashed through him, and he nearly fell to his knees. The cuts were clean, and not deep enough to gut him, but movement hurt and blood seeped from the gashes with no hint of stopping.

 

“Someone’s in need of a spanking!” Isabela scolded, and while the dragon screamed when the daggers dove through the unprotected flesh of one leg, Fenris swore one of the noises sounded like a laugh.

 

Fenris wasn’t a tank, though, and the dragon could fly. Merrill had bound it with vines, but the dragon set them on fire and took off. But not before flicking Fenris, who had been aiming a debilitating stab through its gut, into the mass of brambles with the tip of its tail. 

 

He phased through them without thinking, grunting as he hit the ground. The dragon set the brambles on fire and took off, slithering into the roof of the tower and disappearing inside with a great bellow that shook the tower to the foundations. His sword had flown from his hand at the impact. Running from the fire, Fenris phased through the thorny bushes and vines that wrapped their way around the tower, cradling his wound with one hand to staunch the bleeding. 

 

“Fenris!” He heard someone yell, but there was no time to reply when the fire was upon him.

 

He glanced from the tower to the fire, and grunting with the effort and the pain of his lyrium brands, phased inside.

 

It was cool inside for the moment. And dark. “Shit.” He said into it, leaning against the door and taking a few moments to wheeze to himself. Here he was in the dark, in a tower, with nothing but a dragon for company somewhere above. With a wound that needed closing and allies to get back to. He had a dragon to kill and a debt to pay as well. 

 

He found an old sword on a skeleton. It looked dwarven in make but it was still sharp, and he slung it around his back. There was nothing he could use to staunch the bleeding, so he just pressed harder against the sticky warm of his blood and began hobbling slowly up the stairs. 

 

The tower steps wound around the tower and he ascended slowly. Once in a while he would come to a door and he’d poke his head inside. In the kitchen he found cheese and bread, still good. Fresh. There were even some salted meats and a semi-stocked cellar. He puzzled over it for a moment, then left things where they were and continued to crawl up slowly. In the servants quarters he found cloth, and bound his wound with it with a hitched breath.

 

Then, he found treasure chests. He didn’t bother opening them, but made a note to tell Isabela and Varric about them later. Isabela had been promised treasure, after all. The final door rested at the very top of the stairs. He considered the door for a moment, and the fact that he saw no dragon. The dragon had been large, and while the tower was large enough to fit a sleeping dragon snugly, he thought he’d have heard it by now. He knew they hadn’t injured it so gravely.

 

He took a deep breath, wrapped a hand around the hilt of his stolen sword, and phased through the door. 

 

He froze on the threshold.

 

There was no dragon in the room. There was a bed, a desk, shelves of books. There was a fireplace and before it, two chairs. Tucked against the wall there was an ornate Orlesian bathtub. At the foot of the bed there was a chest. But more than that, there was a body on the bed. And that body was not a dragon. 

 

“You’re not a dragon,” he told the man with an overwhelming sense of disassociation. The man on the bed sprang up from where he was wrapping his thigh in crisp white bandages and snatched up his staff. He had a beard, thick arms, and wore a plain tunic and pants. His boots had been kicked off into the corner. 

 

“And you’re...not dead,” the man returned glibly, not dropping his staff. 

 

Fenris’ brow furrowed. He felt lightheaded. “Where’s the dragon?” 

 

“What dragon?” The man asked, and his smile was sharp. “No dragons here. Just me. No damsels either, but you’re not a knight.” 

 

“What?” Fenris started forward. The pain in his stomach had grown steadily sharper and Fenris cringed. His tolerance for pain was high, he knew, but this was bad. 

 

The man flicked the pointy end of his staff forward. “Ah ah ah,” he tutted, “I wouldn’t come closer if I were you.” 

 

Fenris raised his sword as if to strike. The movement pulled at his injuries. He would have wavered but for the surge of hot, thick rage.  “You’re a mage,” he snarled, and then promptly his legs gave out and he collapsed. 

 

\--

 

Something wet, warm, and soft was touching his brow. 

 

It caressed his skin and cleaned battle gore and soot from his face. He felt so comfortable, like he was floating. Wherever he was, he felt warm and safe. Events were niggling on the back of his mind, and worries and fears, but he wanted to ignore them. The cloth ran down his bare neck now. He made a noise, involuntarily, and the soft touch froze. His cheek turned in the direction of where it had gone, and then memories rushed back. His eyes snapped open and he sat up so quickly he nearly headbutted the man in the face.

 

The man yelped and fell back, lost balance, and crashed off the bed.

 

The rag that the man had been using to clean his face fell with a flop beside him on the blanket. Fenris swore in thick Tevene at the wave of pain that assaulted him at the movement. His armor was gone, leaving him in his leather leggings alone. His undershirt was gone and there were tight bandages across his middle, where the dragon had clawed him. A quick glance around told him he was still in the room at the top of the tower. 

 

“Mage,” he spat, staring down at the man on the floor. The man jumped up, flashing a smirk in his direction.  “Where is my armor?” 

 

“I had to take it off to wrap your wounds. Sorry I’m shit at healing magic. Never really my thing. Better at pushing things around and setting them on fire and stuff like that.” He said with a cheeky grin that Fenris ignored. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to get up. 

 

“Hey now, where do you think you’re going?” He asked, pushing Fenris back down onto the bed. Fenris snarled. His brands flared to life and the man jerked back. “Aha, what is that trick anyway, by the way?” Really neat. Very nifty. Lyrium right?” 

 

Fenris deactivated them with a mutinous glare, pushing away and swinging his legs around the other side of the bed. He stood and the world wobbled dangerously. The mage leapt after him, stepping on the bed and dropping to the other side in front of him with a stagger and a thump. 

 

“What, no ‘Thanks for saving my life, Garrett, real neat of you to go out of your way after I tried to stab you in the face.’” He paused for dramatic effect, wiggling his eyebrows. “That’s your cue,” he said helpfully. 

 

Fenris snarled. “Release me. I have no quarrel with you, but I need no reason to kill a mage.” 

 

“You really have to work on your people skills,” the man called Garrett replied with a grin. The name niggled in the back of his head, but he had no time for it. Fenris felt his patience growing ever more thin, and pulsed his lyrium. “Alright!” Garrett’s hands flew up in an ‘at ease’ gesture, and he stepped back. “Whatever you want. Have fun tripping down those stairs and stepping on all the fire still burning at the base of the tower. But, hey. You got in here -- somehow -- so I guess you can get back out.”

 

Fenris walked two steps before the questions burning at him made him turn. “Where’s the dragon?”

 

“What dragon?” Garrett asked flippantly, dropping onto his bed and switching to the other side. He picked up the cloth and dropped it into the basin on the bedside table, ringing it out and folding it in half before draping it over the rim. 

 

“The dragon I was sent here to kill.” 

 

“Well, that’s nice, but no dragon here!” Garrett flung himself into the chair by the fireplace. He wiggled his fingers and fire sprang to life under them. The warmth was practically instantaneous, and he hummed an off-key tune with forced calm.

 

Fenris looked around the room, found his gear on the table in the corner by the window, and hobbled over to it. He pulled on his undershirt with careful movements, and then began to strap his armor on. A glance out the window and he could see smoke rising from ashes below. The sun had risen but it was a cloudy day. The breeze through the open window was chilled and soggy, which probably meant it was going to rain at some point. Out of range of the fire, by the lake, he could see three familiar forms. He breathed out a sigh of relief to see them alive, and put his back to the window so he could keep an eye on the man. 

 

There was a second door other than the one Fenris had come in. He assumed that one lead to open air, as there was nowhere else one could go. The dragon had to be through there. Fenris frowned at the odd mage who refused to answer his questions and finished strapping on his armor in pained silence. He considered the sword he’d stolen from the corpse. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to pick it up without causing himself far too much pain, he left it in the corner and crossed to the second door. Before Garrett could stop him, Fenris jerked the handle and pulled it open. 

 

A gush of cool air blew past him from the open level at the top of the little staircase. Fenris, with one hand braced on the wall, hobbled up them and poked his head out. No dragon. A half demolished roof, some scales, a lot of blood that stank -- but no dragon. 

 

Awareness hit him like a slap to the face, and he sat down hard on the top step. 

 

Garrett had followed him to the open doorway. He held no staff, but seemed, to Fenris, a hundred feet taller. His eyes were in shadow, but he could feel the gaze boring into him.

 

“You’re the dragon,” Fenris whispered, staring. 

 

“Well, I don’t know about that. More of a shapeshifter really.” Garrett laughed, scratching the back of his neck. 

 

“ _ Fenhedis _ .” Fucking mages. Fucking magic. 

 

“Sure,” Garrett said with a laugh. “Look, weren’t you leaving? The way out is the other way. Now that you know my secret I have to find a new tower with a new lake so thanks for that, bye now, don’t trip and stab yourself on the way out or anything.” 

 

“Who are you?” 

 

“Me? No one.” Garrett grinned. Fenris just glared. “You’re supposed to leave -- you can tell everyone that ‘No one can turn into a dragon in the Dales!’ and everyone will believe you. I can go back to my faux Orlesian accent and live alone in scaly wonder. Haha, everyone is happy, right? Right.” 

 

“My...associates and I are chasing a dragon that killed Malcolm Hawke.” Fenris ground out around Garrett’s babbling. “And the brother of Bethany and Carver Hawke.” Garrett went completely still. There was a whooshing sound as all the breath in his body rushed out at once, and then he leaned against the doorframe. 

 

Fenris glared. “Do you know where it is?” 

 

Garrett shuddered. “Yes.” He swallowed, shaking himself out of it and affecting a shadow of a grin. “I killed it.” 

 

“And who are you?” 

 

“The one who killed the dragon?” Garrett tried. 

 

“Your inane attempts at dodging questions is beginning to thin my patience.” 

 

“Who, you? Impatient? No way.” Garrett groaned at Fenris’s glare. “Fine. I’m Garrett Hawke, the boy who killed a dragon and then nearly died, are you happy now?” 

 

Fenris stared. Garrett Hawke stared back. Fenris set his jaw and ground out. “You are Bethany and Carver’s brother?” 

 

“Yeees,” Garrett said slowly. “Call me Hawke. Look, I’d be a lot more willing to answer questions if you would be more willing to keep up.” 

 

“I’m not the one saying impossible things,” Fenris snapped, getting to his feet with a wince. “You will tell me what happened.” 

 

“Hey, I saved your life! Why are you demanding things of me?” 

 

“You’re insufferable,” Fenris growled, and hobbled back into the room. He found a bottle of wine on a bookshelf and pulled it down, pulling off the loosened cork and sniffing. 

 

“Aaand you’re drinking my wine.” Hawke said, shutting his outer door. “Why are you drinking my wine? I thought you were leaving.” 

 

“You will tell me how this happened. Why did you not go back to your home after you killed the dragon?” Fenris asked stiffly, ignoring the way Hawke seemed to visibly wilt in his peripheral vision. 

 

“You ask the hard questions, friend.” Hawke shook a finger at him. Fenris dropped into one of the chairs, showing a bravado he didn’t feel, and took a swig of the Orlesian piss they called wine. “I was nearly dead. Was dead, even. Then the Witch of the Wilds saved me -- Apparently she lived near the dragon because of course she did -- and nursed me back to health. By the time I was better and capable of sentient thought, I’d figured out I could turn into a dragon, she taught me how to control it, and then the blight hit and I had to run. Everyone had to run. It was a fun time.” 

 

Fenris’ brow furrowed as he frowned. “So you don’t know how you gained this dragon magic?” 

 

Hawke sighed. “No, not really. And I can control it now, but it wasn’t easy. I’d get mad and poof! Dragon! The old hag told me it was because I had dragon blood in my veins or blah blah destiny don’t hesitate to leap blah blah, but obviously I stopped listening and went to bother her daughter.” He crossed and dropped into the second chair. “Share?” He wiggled his hand for the bottle.

 

Fenris considered all the ways he could kill Hawke. He considered it seriously for a moment. Just grab his wrist and shove his hand into his unprotected chest. Wrench out the beating heart before he could even turn into a dragon. “Is it blood magic?”

 

“Well my blood  _ is _ magic.” Hawke joked. “No, it’s not. I don’t do blood magic.” 

 

“All mages resort to blood magic before the end.” Fenris growled, but handed Hawke the bottle. 

 

As Fenris processed these new facts they shared the bottle. When the wine finally began to warm the cold pit of his stomach, he broke it. “You will come back to Kirkwall with us.”

 

Hawke, who had just been taking a drink, spluttered with the bottle, dribbling wine into his beard. “Excuse me? Why would I go to Kirkwall? Dragon, remember? And more than that --  _ mage. _ ”

 

“Your sister is a mage, and she isn’t in the Circle.” He swallowed back the ‘yet’ on the tip of his tongue. “And your brother is there.” He tipped his head. “They will want to know you’re alive.” 

 

Hawke drummed his fingers quickly along the glass of the bottle. “I don’t think they will. They’re fine now, right? Alive and doing good?” 

 

“They were in indentured servitude for a year.” Fenris said flatly. “They are friends with an abomination, a blood mage, a pirate, and a rogue storyteller. But yes, I suppose they are alive.” 

 

“And mother?” Hawke asked. 

 

“Alive. Well, last I saw her.” 

 

Hawke breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Then the blight didn’t get them. They’re fine. Happy?”

 

Fenris considered Bethany Hawke with her searching eyes, looking to the abomination for a father she would never have. Of Carver, overcompensating for the loss of his big brother by working too hard. Of Leandra, alone in her reclaimed estate. All of them with those sad, sad eyes. 

 

“I would not say happy.” He said after a moment, looking into the fire. He stood. “The fire has probably died now. I should leave. If you really do not want to see your family, I won’t make you leave. You must know the way to Kirkwall.” 

 

“Just follow the giant chains and the mages screaming ‘Whee, blood magic!’” Hawke said with a quirk of a smile. 

 

“You are sure you won’t leave?” Fenris asked, by the door. He wasn’t sure why he looked back, why he had to see Hawke’s sad, hollowed eyes. 

 

“Who else would guard my treasure hoard?” Hawke asked with a quirk of a grin. 

 

Fenris held his gaze for a long moment. The flames flicked patterns of shadows along his skin. His skin was pale, his beard was stark-- a series of contrasts. Fenris nodded, and shut the door behind him, staring down into the murky, still smokey stairway. He felt trepidation. On the edge of something, like there was a change in the air that he was about to leave behind. 

 

He heard a smash in the room, a thump, a couple of thuds, and then the door slammed open. “Hey, wait--!” Hawke shouted and slammed into him. Fenris dropped down a couple steps. Warm arms wrapped around him instinctively, keeping him from toppling over down the steps. He grunted in pain from his stomach and the smack of Hawke’s chin smashing into the back of his head.

 

“ _ Kaffas! _ ” 

 

“Maker’s Hairy Balls!” Hawke yelped, grasping at his nose. He didn’t move the hand around Fenris’s waist, nor did he pull away. Fenris felt the tips of his ears flushing. “That--that was graceful.” He groaned, sniffing. “Is my nose broken?” He wiggled his nose. “No, okay. No. It’s okay. Why is your head so hard?” 

 

Fenris’s lip quirked. “It’s a gift.” 

 

“Ha!” Hawke laughed, eyes wide in surprise. “He jokes! Will wonders ever cease?” He eyed Fenris with sudden focus. “Soo, what’s your name anyway? Where are you from?”

 

“I am called Fenris,” he replied, pulling back carefully. “I’m from Tevinter, but I suppose Kirkwall is my home now.” He met Garrett’s gaze and nodded back into the room. “Gather your things if you’re coming.” 

 

\--

 

They walked together in surprisingly companionable silence. Hawke had a chest full of gems under one arm. They’d gone back into the room so he could grab his other necessities, and he had that bag and his staff slung on his back. Fenris stepped carefully through the ashes of the brambles that had once surrounded the tower, and winced every time he stepped on the still hot embers buried under the ash. By the time they were over them they were both covered in soot. In a ring around the tower someone had magically dug a trench to keep the fire from spreading, and Fenris wiped his feet off into the green grass on the other side with a soft sigh. He needed to stick his feet -- and possibly his entire self -- into the water, but held off. 

 

By the time they reached the view of the campsite the other three had set up, Hawke was visibly vibrating from nerves. 

 

Varric had his crossbow pointed at Hawke the moment they entered the campsite, and Merrill squeaked and threw herself towards Fenris. She visibly forced herself not to wrap her arms around him in the last moment and ended up wobbling awkwardly in front of him. 

 

“Oh! Fenris, you’re alright! We were so sure that you -- oh but when we couldn’t find you Varric said you must have gone somewhere -- but are you alright? Oh no, you’re injured --” 

 

“Who’s your friend?” Isabela asked, her voice a dangerously velvet purr as she melted out of the shadows of the trees beside the camp. “Kitten, why don’t you come over here and let Fenris breathe, mm?”

 

Merrill wilted, but let Isabela pull her back from them. Varric was still sitting on the other side of the fire, but Bianca was propped up on his knee. Casual, but Fenris had no doubts that the wrong move would send arrows flying into Hawke’s chest before he could so much as blow a smoke ring.

 

“Lovely friends you have here,” Hawke said. “I see where you get it your welcoming sense of propriety.” Hawke said to him, ignoring the crossbow and the daggers and the...Merrill. “Hello! I’ve brought treasure. Happy Satinalia!” 

 

“This is Garrett Hawke.” Fenris said abruptly, cutting off the inevitable nonsense. “Bethany and Carver’s long lost brother.” 

 

“Er,” Hawke said to the stares of the three. “Call me Hawke?” 

 

In the fading sunlight, Fenris made his way over to the lake and cleaned himself off as the other three immediately pulled Hawke down and demanded answers. Fenris snorted to himself as Hawke attempted to come up with a tale about killing the dragon and becoming the first mage dragon hunter and how much he would have loved to return home if he weren’t so busy trying to finish off all dragons in the world so that they could all go home, when Merrill, chin in her hands and elbows on her knees, asked the question that tripped him up. 

 

“So how come you haven’t killed the dragon here yet then?”

 

“Er.” Hawke stumbled. He looked to Fenris beseechingly for help.

 

Fenris, seeing no need to help him when the truth would be discovered anyway, scoffed. “He is the dragon.” 

 

And to the uproar that followed, in which Hawke turned various shades of red and then a very impressive purple, Hawke taught them all a half shimmy to get away from Isabela trying to climb into his lap. “Soooo, big boy.” Isabela purred. Varric smirked. Fenris, with his head dunked underwater, did a little half smile that he smothered quickly.

 

“When you’re a dragon...” 

 

“A big dragon...” Varric chimed in.

 

“Do you like being a female?” Isabela asked, winking. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

 

Hawke didn’t miss a beat. “It’s very uplifting,” he winked back. They broke into laughter. 

 

“But why would you be a female?” Merrill asked, eyes round with confusion. 

 

“Merrill...” Isabela sighed, tipping her head towards the sky in exasperation. 

 

A beat passed, and then: “I missed something again, didn’t I?” Fenris smothered his laugh with a cough. 

 

\--

 

It took a month to get back to Kirkwall. It was slow going at first due to various injuries (mostly his own). But mostly it was Hawke’s fault. For all that Hawke complained or slithered out of things, he also seemed to be a paragon of helpfulness (as Varric put it). The way back to Kirkwall was far more exhausting than the way there simply because Hawke kept stopping to  _ help  _ people. Hawke upset the balance. And not because he could turn into a dragon, although that was certainly part of it. But with Hawke in the party, Fenris was more on edge than he was before. Hawke had a presence. There was no other way to put it. He filled a void that the party didn’t know it was missing. 

 

But more than that, Hawke got along with all of them. He bantered effortlessly with Isabela and Varric and was kind to Merrill, even after he’d learned she was a blood mage. Even Fenris found himself enjoying Hawke’s company, as much as he told himself to be wary. He was a dragon, he was dangerous. He was a mage. But he’d somehow gotten inside his skin before Fenris could stop it. He ought to be wary: He could be an abomination. There were too many unknown variables. He knew very little of the Witch of the Wilds aside from that she was a myth and that she’d assisted the Hawke family and Aveline in escaping. She too could turn into a dragon; and perhaps that was part of it. He was an anomaly; a piece of a legend. Fenris wasn’t sure what to think. 

 

In his tower he’d avoided large towns and had done quite well keeping himself alive. In Val Royeaux they stopped to exchange gems for coin for them all to split (although Isabela got a sixty percent cut on the basis of treasure being ‘why she was there’ in the first place). They got Hawke clothes that didn’t look like they’d been chewed on or burnt off. Hawke’s staff could hardly be called such, and when he fought it was far more utilitarian and with a lot more combat. 

 

Finally, they took a ship out of Val Royeaux and set sail, making good time over the Waking sea. 

 

“Have you ever taken anyone for a ride in dragon form?” Merrill asked Hawke, sidling up to him from where he leaned against the starboard railing, watching the sea roll by. 

 

Hawke glanced around for crew members warily, but Merrill had been tactful enough. “Um, no, not really.”

 

“Mm,” Isabela cut in, sighing and leaning back on her hands. She had taken off her bandana and let her hair out, the long tresses rolling in the wind. She practically glowed, back in her element on the seas. “That powerful form beneath my thighs would be most exhilarating. We could have ridden you all the way back to Kirkwall.” 

 

“And every army and dragon hunter would be after us by now.” Varric cut in with a snort. “Rivaini, leave your friend-fiction out of everyday conversation.” 

 

“Oh don’t be so put out. I know what you’ve been writing.” Isabela grinned at him, and waggled her eyebrows at Hawke. “If you ever want someone to ride you Hawke, you know where I’ll be.”

 

“Ready and waiting?” Hawke asked with a grin. 

 

Fenris snorted and got up to walk the deck. When he had completed one cycle, Hawke joined him. He nudged him companionably. “Are you ready to go back to Kirkwall?” 

 

“Are  _ you _ ?” Fenris asked, eyebrow raised. 

 

“Sure,” Hawke said with faux bravado. “Templars, blood mages -- bad ones, not Merrill -- gangs, and family all waiting for me. What’s not to be ready for?” 

 

Fenris glanced out at the sea. “I get the impression that you aren’t the best at confronting your past.” 

 

Hawke went silent. Fenris looked back at him, surprised he hadn’t shot any remarks his way. “I didn’t know, you know. About you being a slave before. Varric didn’t tell me much, so don’t kill him please.” 

 

Fenris shrugged. “You already know I’m from Tevinter. There aren’t exactly many non-mage elves in Tevinter that are free.”

 

“But you’re free now, right?” 

 

“I will never be truly free until my -- until Danarius is dead.” Fenris spat, glaring out at the sea. He thought of the Fog Warriors who had protected him. Who he had slaughtered. Their blood was on his hands and he -- he wasn’t going to think about it. Not sober as he was. 

 

“He’s the one who gave you the markings, isn’t he?” 

 

Fenris nodded, leaning against the railing of the ship and feeling far too sober to speak of his past. He glanced down at his hands. I remember nothing of my life before them. Not of my family, if I have one, nor of any time before I wasn’t a slave to Danarius.” 

 

“I’ve never heard of anything like it.” Hawke said softly, leaning beside him. “It’s a shame something so beautiful had to come with such pain.” 

 

Fenris grunted. “They have their uses.” He said nothing of the pain he still felt. Of how some days the pain was so great he had trouble getting out of bed. Of how they felt around magic. “I was the first to survive the process as far as I know.” 

 

Hawke was silent, looking down at Fenris’s hands. He reached out and hesitantly traced the skin around the markings. The touch was soft, and Fenris felt the thrill of magic down his spine. He pulled his hand away. 

 

“When Danarius comes to Kirkwall, I’d like to help you.” Hawke rubbed at the back of his neck and met Fenris’s inquiring gaze. “I want to burn him to a crisp.” 

 

Fenris blinked, glancing down. “As long as I can kill him first, you can do whatever you want afterwards.” He swallowed, hard. “I -- thank you. I haven’t told anyone any of this before.” 

 

Hawke grinned. “No need to thank me Fenris, it’s you who got me out of my tower. My knight in shining armor. Or markings. Shining markings?”

 

Fenris chuckled, meeting Hawke’s eyes. “You are a handsome man, Hawke. It would be a shame to keep you hidden.” 

 

“I--” Hawke flushed. “Um, yes.” He laughed. “Right you are.” Their eyes met again and Fenris’s stomach flopped, a tight yearning in his chest. He straightened abruptly and looked away. “I’m going to see if I can help the crew.” He said stiffly, and fled as tactfully as he could manage. The fluttering in his stomach refused to leave, and he buried it in busywork as much as he could. 

 

\--

 

The sea was rough the day they made Kirkwall. Standing on the bow of the ship, their exhausted band looked out at the giant chains growing ever larger. Passing through inspection at the Gallows, Hawke suppressed a shudder. 

 

“Flemeth said it’d be my destiny to come to Kirkwall.” He sighed. “Never did figure out what she meant. I don’t think she knew either. Kept saying she wasn’t sure if it was fate or chance. Maybe it would have been profound, but all I want to do is turn this ship around.” 

 

“It was nice to get out of the city,” Merrill agreed, sighing. “The alienage is so cramped all the time. But it’ll be nice to be home too.” 

 

“There’s no place like home,” Varric sighed wistfully. “At least we didn’t have to go to the deep roads this time. Same amount of dragons, but a much nicer trip.”

 

“There were dragons in the Deep Roads?” Hawke asked, eyebrows raising. “How did it get down there?”

 

“I didn’t exactly have time to ask it, Chuckles. I was too busy trying to not get my head snapped off.” 

 

“It was smaller than you though.” Isabela sighed wistfully. “Must have been a boy dragon.”

 

“Haha, you’re funny.” Hawke scoffed. “That was only funny the first ten times.” 

 

Fenris chuckled, watching as the ship edged close to the dock. Crewmates ran up and down the deck, shouting to one another. The Captain barked orders. The stench of the city was already seeping over them like a heavy cloud. 

 

When the gangplank lowered the others stepped down and Hawke paused beside Fenris. “Does it always smell like that?” He asked, nervously twitching his hands. 

 

“Yes,” Fenris sighed, and grasped his elbow, pulling him down the boards and onto the dock. “You’ll get used to it.” 

 

Hawke shot him a tense grin, and they stopped beside Varric, who was rubbing his hands together. “Ah, dry land.” The dwarf sighed. “Smell that? That’s the smell of desperation. And vomit, probably.” 

 

“And fish,” Merrill chirped, rocking back on her heels. “Oh, it gets worse every time I come back. The docks are better than Darktown though.” 

 

“Kitten, everywhere is better than Darktown. I’ll walk you home.” Isabela said, slinging her arm around her shoulders. “Make sure you don’t get lost today, mm?” 

 

“Oh, thank you. It’s  _ so  _ easy. All the streets look the same and none of them make any sense!” 

 

“Meet at the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace later?” Varric called, and Isabela waved over her shoulder as she and Merrill walked off. The dwarf glanced up at them. “You ever play Wicked Grace, Chuckles?”

 

“Not unless you count playing with myself.” Hawke laughed, “stakes just aren’t the same when you’re betting against yourself. Too easy to cheat.” 

 

“Well, you’re going to learn.” Varric grinned. Together, the three of them headed for Lowtown. “I’ll send a runner for the twins,” he said once they’d gotten to his suites. He summoned ale and sighed as he sat himself down. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you at the estate, but it’s probably best to meet here first.”

 

Hawke nodded tensely, sitting down on the edge of his seat. Fenris sat down across from him, not quite sure about parting just yet. He’d wait for the twins to get here to complete his debt, and then return to his mansion. Then he’d drink himself to sleep and things would return to normal.  

 

Across from him, Hawke clutched the ale in a tight grip. Fenris could feel his leg jiggling nervously under the floorboards. He wanted to say something, anything, to get that tight expression off of Hawke’s face, but Varric beat him to it.

 

“You two look like someone ate your pet nug.” Varric was going through various papers and packages at his spot at the head of the table. His spectacles were balanced on the crook of his nose and he raised his eyebrows at them. “It’ll be a little while, I only just sent the boy for them and who knows if they’re even home.” 

 

Then Edwina brought them food from below and Fenris wrinkled his nose at the smell, but realizing how ravenous he was, picked up the spoon to pick at the lumpy meat bits. Hawke took one look at the stew and stood, pacing around the table and started to touch everything. He made his way from Varric’s knick knacks to his large bookshelf, and started pulling books out. He flipped one of them open and read a few lines. 

 

“Swords and Shields?” Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is this-- ooh,  _ hello.” _

 

“That’s not one I would recommend,” Varric said, his pen stilling over whatever he was writing. Hawke sat down beside Fenris on the bench backwards. Fenris tried not to tense as he did so, taking a slow bite of stew. 

 

“‘They came together like fish to water--’ Oh Varric no, that’s hardly romantic. No wonder it didn’t sell well, no Orlesian would read zis!” He said, snapping it closed and resting his elbows on the table. He glanced at Fenris, who was proud of himself for not giving in to look back. “Are you sure that stew isn’t poisoned?” 

 

“No,” Fenris admitted. “But I’ve built up a tolerance. Nothing phases my stomach anymore.” 

 

“I should cook something for you sometime. I make a mean roast.” Fenris snorted. “And...toast.” 

 

“Please, spare us.” Varric muttered. Then he stopped as the door banged open. Hawke flinched, Fenris went still, and all heads turned as one to the two twins standing in the doorway with wide eyes. 

 

“It’s true!” Bethany whispered, covering her mouth. Carver stood in front of her, and said nothing. Just stared. Beside Fenris, Hawke placed the book on the table and slowly got to his feet.

 

“Um, hi.” He said. “You two look...grown up.” He blinked rapidly. Bethany was crying. Carver strode forward and punched Hawke in the shoulder. “Ow!” 

 

“You coward. You bloody coward! You were alive all this time and you couldn’t even write a note? ‘Hello, I’m alive, don’t bother coming after me, because I’m a bigger ass than Maferath?’” 

 

Hawke stepped back, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally just held out his arms. “You’re right.” Both twins rushed in. Fenris looked away, rising quietly and nodding to Varric. “I’m the biggest coward. I’ll be better.” He said into Bethany’s hair. 

 

When he slipped out of the room, they had all sunken to the floor together, in a large pile of Hawke’s. 

 

\--

 

His mansion was still. It was covered in dust, the corpses hadn’t moved, and if anything, the hole in the roof of his bedroom had gotten bigger. He sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed. After so much time in the company of others, he’d almost forgotten what it was to have time to himself. Forgotten that there was nothing for him but a void and bad memories waiting for him. He reached for a bottle, and ended up drinking three. 

 

It was a while since he saw any of the Hawke’s again. He heard about them plenty, when he stopped by to see Varric or when Isabela came to visit. Sebastian spoke with them -- Bethany in particular -- often enough to keep Fenris updated too. Hawke had been welcomed into the estate with open arms, and Leandra had reportedly been overwhelmed. Understandably so. He seemed happy enough to go on errands and run around helping people all over Kirkwall (and killing others). He got along with Anders splendidly (which Fenris wasn’t surprised about at all). 

 

And it wasn’t that Fenris was purposely avoiding the Hawke’s. But he didn’t exactly have much to do with them now that his debt was paid. Why he was so enamoured with finding out about Hawke he had no wish to dig into. He’d done his job and more than his job and now he was left adrift. 

 

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” 

 

Fenris jerked up from his table, sword raised before he registered who had spoken. Hawke stood in the doorway, smiling jauntily. He looked -- well. He looked good. His armor was new, glinting with enchantments. He had a nice belt, boots without patches or holes, and the hollowed expression was gone from his face. 

 

Fenris lowered his sword and sat back down. “What are you doing here?” He asked, looking up at him. 

 

Hawke grinned, taking it as an invitation to bound in like a mabari hound. He sat in the chair beside his and folded his large arms on the table. “Welllll, it turns out that I need to hunt some slavers. And that you’re the man I want to have my back in a fight with them.” 

 

Fenris’s heart twisted. “Is that so?” He asked, reaching for his wine bottle. “And is that all you’re here for?”

 

“I also wanted to meet your skeleton friends. Very nice. I like the mushrooms growing out of that one’s skull.” He grinned, and Fenris fought the smile threatening on his own lips.

 

“They keep the appearance of destitution well enough.” He said. “Aveline helps keep the rest away.”

 

“Ah, yes. I met the infamous Aveline, you know. Frightening woman. Could probably KO me in a dragon fight.” Hawke nudged Fenris. “I’m glad you came to get me, not her.” 

 

Fenris met his eyes, feeling trapped in the heat of his gaze. “Aren’t we all?” 

 

“I also wanted to say...” Hawke shifted awkwardly. “I meant what I said before. About helping you fight Danarius. I figure we should stick together, you and I. In case something happens.” 

 

“And around you, something inevitably will, mm?” Fenris asked, but he felt a rush of relief that shocked him. “You’re not doing this because you feel indebted to me, are you? I would not have you feel that way towards me.” 

 

“What? No.” Hawke sighed. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? I miss you.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “There. The fighting and adventures are just a bonus.” 

 

“I don’t know if I need a dragon in my life.” Fenris said, sitting back. But he was smiling. His stomach was doing loops. “Getting burned is not my favorite thing.” 

 

“Ha, I’ll try to keep the fire away from you.” Hawke said, beaming. He shuddered, then reached over and grasped Fenris’s hand. “Seriously do you sleep in your armor? It’s so pointy, and uncomfortable.” 

 

Fenris tipped his head, looking up at him from under his hair. The tips of his ears flushed red. “Then perhaps you should take it off of me?” 

 

Hawke laughed, startled, and grasped the back of Fenris’s neck. It was warm. Fenris was warm all over. “I think can do that.” 

 

\--

 

Once upon a time there was a young man who ran away from home to fight a dragon and avenge his father. A witch saved his life and he woke up cursed to be both dragon and man. He kept away to keep his family safe, ate only what he could afford to steal, and hid in a tower deep in the forests of Orlais. 

 

One day, a ragtag band came to fight him and discovered his secret, and took him home. Life works in mysterious ways, and all that. 

 

\--

 

“You don’t think Varric will ever tell a story about us, do you?” Hawke asked one day, far, far in the future. 

 

“No. It needs a tragedy.” Fenris replied, firmly. 

 

Hawke smiled as Fenris traced the scars on his bare skin with wandering hands. “There’s still time.” 

 

Fenris scoffed. “Your outlook on life never ceases to amaze, Hawke.” And did something tricky with his fingers that left Hawke breathless and ended further conversation. 

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where credit's due: I've seen the dragon joke in emilyenrose's delightfully epic fic: By The Still Waters, but there was no way I couldn't have a similar joke: Hawke's a dragon. It writes itself. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
